


Cloudy With a Chance of Rain

by Rathaway



Series: Storm Advisory [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Family, Friendship, Gen, brOTP: Laura Hale & Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 00:10:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rathaway/pseuds/Rathaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bottom half of Laura's body is laid out on the ground, not 15 feet away, but Stiles doesn't look at it. Instead, he stares up at the cloudy sky, and babbles to Jimmy, the officer who'd taken his call, and pretends that he is anywhere but here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cloudy With a Chance of Rain

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of this story, Laura is 20 and Stiles is 17, and Laura and Derek are twins.
> 
> Paragraphs written in italics are flashbacks.
> 
> Be warned: this fic is unbeta'd. Also, my writing doesn't follow any traditional structure.

His hand is shaking as he clutches his phone in hand, but now that he's emptied his breakfast out onto the forest floor, he's feeling oddly calm as he dials the BHPD directly, rather than bothering with emergency services.

The bottom half of Laura's body (and Stiles knows that it's Laura, because it was only last week that she dragged him down to San Francisco just so he could help her pick out a new wardrobe, and he recognizes every piece of clothing that she – that she –) is laid out on the ground, not 15 feet away, but Stiles doesn't look at it. Instead, he stares up at the cloudy sky, and babbles to Jimmy, the officer who'd taken his call, and pretends that he is anywhere but here.

-

 _“Are you sure you can't stay?” Stiles asks, and he_ doesn't _pout when Laura shakes her head at him, no_ really. _“But Scott and I picked up all the best werewolf movies from the video store. We were gonna have a marathon—we were gonna start with The Wolfman!” He gestures back to Scott, who absently waves the video case around, as he fumbles with the DVD player._

_Laura quirks an eyebrow at him, her expression caught between indignation and amusement._

_“Subtle,” she tells him sarcastically, because Scott doesn't know anything about her furry little secret, and even though she knows he's going to find out eventually, she was hoping to keep things under wraps for a bit longer than this._

_But Stiles waves her off, unworried._

_“Please, he suspects nothing!” he says, and Scott looks over his shoulder at them._

_“Who suspects nothing?” he asks, curious._

_“No one!” Laura and Stiles reply at once._

_“Look,” says Laura, “I'm just going to visit Uncle Pete and take care of some stuff with the lawyers, and then I'll be back before you know it. I'll be gone a day, tops. Then we can spend all day watching your corny werewolf movies.” She rolls her eyes, but Stiles knows that she enjoys those “corny werewolf movies” just as much as he does._

_He whines about her departure until they say goodbye at the front door, parting with a hug and some snarky banter._

_Stiles doesn't close the door until Laura has pulled away from the house in her Camaro. Watching her zip off down the street is a moment that he will carry with him for the rest of his life._

_Because it is the last time that Stiles sees Laura Hale alive and breathing._

_-_

He knows that it's a bad idea.

If finding the bottom half of his best friend's corpse isn't scarring enough, finding the top half is sure to finish the job. But the idea of returning Laura to her brother in a condition that is anything short of whole makes his stomach turn unpleasantly.

Jimmy is still on the phone; had demanded that they keep connected until the cavalry arrives, and Stiles stays on the phone with him even as he searches for the rest of his friend's body.

It doesn't take him long to find what he's looking for, and when he does, he wishes that he hadn't even bothered.

(fuckfuckfuckfuck _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_ )

Laura's face is frozen in a picture of simple surprise.

That image sears itself into his mind, right next to the memory of the first time that he ever saw her, fumbling with arm fulls of junk food, because apparently she's too good to carry a grocery store basket. And it just- shit, it just taints everything about that moment.

It taints everything about every other moment he's had with her.

Stiles knows that he's never going to get this out of his head.

He's going to carry this around with him for the rest of his life.

(Just like he carries around that image of his mother, limp and lifeless in her hospital bed, like it's been burned into the backs of his eyelids.)

Everything goes sort of gray from there, his vision swimming with the familiar feeling of disorientation. But he doesn't quite recognize the panic attack for what it is until his knees hit the ground, and his muffled hearing returns. He's dropped the phone, but he can hear Jimmy's voice, loud and worried from where it sits on ground.

It's only then that he realizes that he _can't breathe._ His breaths come in, quick and short, and it's just not enough oxygen; that much he can tell by the way that his vision darkens around the edges, and he tips over sideways, only a few feet away from Laura's torso and, oh God, he's going to die right next to his best friend's bisected body.

The last thing he hears before he blacks out is the sound of his father's frantic voice, and then he's gone.

-

_“Please eat,” his dad begs that morning, watching Stiles push his breakfast around on his plate._

_It's been three days since Laura's disappearance, and the teenager has no appetite._

_He thinks it's pretty unfortunate, because his dad may not be able to put together much else, but he's an ace when it comes to breakfast._

_Still, he pushes his plate away with a sigh, and looks at his father apologetically._

_“I'm sorry,” he says, and it's for more than just wasting food, but he doesn't say that._

_His dad's lips are pursed, like there's so much that he wants to say, but he just isn't sure how to say any of it._

_As Stiles clears the table, he can't help but think that maybe that's for the best._

_He's halfway out the door when Sam finally speaks._

_“Where are you going?”_ _he asks, fingers absently drumming in a pattern that Stiles implements often._

_The teen takes a moment to consider his answer._

_Where is he going?_

_He's not entirely sure, himself._

_All he knows is that he needs some fresh air, out of this house, and away from the stacks of rented movies on the coffee table._

_(He still hasn't quite been able to bring himself to return them, at least not until he and Laura have sat down and watched all of them.)_

_“The woods,” he finally decides, after a long moment of uneasy quiet._

_His dad doesn't say anything for a bit, and he turns to leave._

_“We're going to find her,” he says finally, sounding every bit the sheriff that he is._

_Stiles turns just a little to get a good look at his father's determined expression, and he cracks a slight smile for the first time in three days._

_As he's walking out to his car, he lets himself feel the tiniest flicker of hope._

_But it doesn't last long._

_Stiles finds Laura long before the police even get the chance._

_-_

She leaves him part of her inheritance.

Most of it goes to her brother, of course, but a small part of it goes to Stiles, and it's- well, it's a lot.

He supposes that he should have expected _something_ , after all they were friends for close to a year before-

But he honestly hadn't thought about it.

He's certainly thinking about it now, though.

There's a lawyer sitting across from him, droning on about accounts and money transfers and how soon the funds will be available, and Stiles just can't bring himself to _care_.

He'll never touch that money.

He couldn't even manage to return a bunch of DVDs to the rental shop without having some kind of melt down.

(They sat on the coffee table for three days after he finds – after his trip into the woods, and it's Scott who finally returns them, while Stiles is pretending to sleep up in his room.)

What is a 17 year old kid going to do with twenty grand, anyway?

There are lots of things that he _could_ do, he knows, but the idea of spending any of that money just...it just unsettles him.

He doesn't realize how badly he's zoned until he finds himself standing at the front door.

There is an envelope and a business card in one hand, and the other is locked with the lawyer's.

“Just give me a call when you open it,” he says quietly, gesturing to the envelope.

His eyes are soft with sympathy, just like everyone else’s, and Stiles tries his best not to dislike him simply for that alone, but it's hard.

Because it's the only emotion he ever sees on people's faces, anymore.

“Yeah, okay,” he says tiredly, and he doesn't even wait for the man to turn around before he shuts the door.

He's leaning against it, forehead pressed to the wood, when his father's warm hands come down on his shoulders, turning him around to look at him.

The look that his dad gives him is both refreshing and heartbreaking.

Because it's not sympathy or pity.

 _“I understand,”_ that expression says, and he seems almost as though he's waiting for something.

Like _this is it_.

Stiles gets twenty grand and a letter, and this is supposed to be his breaking point.

Now he can break down and cry into his father's arms, and tomorrow will be a bright new day, and he can get over this tragedy, move on from this loss, and live happily ever after.

He doesn't cry, though.

Instead, he tosses the letter and the business card onto the table next to the door.

“I'm going for a walk,” he tells his dad, and he slips out the front door before he can be stopped. As he steps off the porch, he makes a call.

The phone rings five times before the answering machine picks up.

_“Thiiiiis is Laura! Obviously I can't come to the,”_

_“Hey, Laura, have you seen my hoodie?”_

_“Stiles! Jesus! What did I tell you about knocking?”_

_“What are you_ doing _? Am I interrupting something-?”_

_“Yes!”_

_“-are you having phone sex with Deputy Miller again?”_

_“_ Oh _my,”_

_Beep!_

He presses the “end call” button without saying anything, grits his teeth as he tries to commit the pitch and tone of her voice—the over-exuberant volume that she always seemed to use, even when it wasn't appropriate—to memory.

Stiles can't do the happily ever after thing;

not so long as Laura's killer is still out there.

It's another four weeks before he eventually opens the letter.

-

_“This is ridiculous,” Stiles hisses at his dad, as he watches Laura Hale_

_(Laura-_ freaking _-Hale)_

_unload some of the things that she'd apparently been keeping in her Camaro._

_There's not much – a couple of boxes, some blankets and clothes._

_Stiles knows that she's been living out of that car, he_ knows _that she doesn't have anywhere else to go right now, but he also doesn't_ care _. He doesn't want a damn werewolf living in the same house as his father; or him, for that matter._

 _“Why are you doing this?” he asks, turning on his father. And he knows that Laura can hear him – after all,_ werewolf _– but he doesn't care. He's not trying to hide his displeasure about this development from anyone, much less her._

_She's a fucking monster, and he doesn't want her anywhere near what's left of his family._

_“Jesus, Stiles,” Sam says sharply. “What the hell did this girl do to piss you off so bad?”_

_Stiles opens his mouth to say_ something _, but he can't exactly tell his dad that their new house guest tried to eat him, so instead he snaps his jaw shut with a 'click,' and turns away, running a hand over his short hair with a heavy sigh._

_“Look,” his dad begins, “I knew the Hales before the fire, and if it had been you, on your own, without anyone to turn to, they would have put you up in a heartbeat.”_

_And damn if Stiles doesn't feel just a little bit ashamed at that._

_“So you're going to suck it up,” his dad tells him, “and you're going to go out there and help Laura bring her stuff in, and you better damn well make her feel welcome. I mean it, Stiles.”_

_“No!” the teen replies, angry and unwilling. “Nope, it's not happening!”_

_He grumbles all the way out to Laura's car, and she's smirking when he approaches._

_Smug bi-_

_“Come to give me a hand?” she asks, cheery smile plastered on her face._

_Stiles kind of hates her._

_With a fiery passion._

_“Don't,” he tells her sharply, and that fake smile drops faster than a water balloon off the Eifel Tower. “I know what you are, and I don't know what you said to my dad to convince him to take you in, but I swear to God, if you so much as touch a hair on his head-”_

_Laura is up in his business faster than Stiles can blink, pressing him into the Camaro, her arms bracketing his head, and he would be lying if he said that he didn't find it a little bit hot._

_Her nose brushes against his, and he leans back, out of reach. Because maybe Laura Hale is beautiful and mysterious and an especially sweet kind of danger, but Stiles isn't about get himself gone on a girl who might try to rip him and his dad up while they're sleeping._

_She seems a little put-out by his rejection, but he quickly loses track of that reaction when her eyes glow red and she starts_ growingfangs _._

_“Are you threatening me, Stiles?” she asks him sweetly, like he's not watching her turn into a damn monster right before his eyes._

_“Yeah,” he replies, voice a little shaky, “yeah, I think I am.”_

_Laura pauses, her expression not quite as smug as before, and she takes a step back, giving him some space._

_They stand there in silence for a moment, as Laura's features melt back into her human mask._

_She looks a bit sorry for her intimidation routine._

_“Look, Stiles,” she says slowly, running a hand through her hair the same way that Stiles tends to do when he's nervous. “I'm not here to hurt anyone, I'm just trying to help.”_

_“The animal attacks,” he guesses, just straight out of nowhere, and he almost isn't sure where his words even come from._

_Laura looks kind of pleased that he understands._

_“The animal attacks that didn't start until you showed up in town.”_

_Now she just looks frustrated._

_“You don't understand-” she begins, but cuts her off._

_“No,_ you _don't understand!” he says angrily. “I know what you are, and I'll admit that it scares the crap out of me, but I really don't care if you're a werewolf or a vampire or the goddamned_ Hulk _.” He huffs out a breath, like he can't quite believe that he just said that. “Everything has a weakness. And I may not know yours right now, but if I feel like you're a threat to my dad, there is nothing on heaven or earth that will stop me from finding out what it is.”_

_Stiles hauls one of the boxes on the sidewalk into his arms and heads straight for the door, not waiting for a response._

_He can feel her gaze, heavy on his back, and he feels his whole body vibrating with tension._

_Because he is_ terrified, _and he knows that Laura can probably sense that, but he refuses to look back, to give her the satisfaction of not only knowing, but also seeing._

_So instead he steps into the house and lets out a shaky breath._

_Outside, Laura lets out a shaky breath of her own, staving off the fear that seizes her chest._

_This isn't what she expected._

_-_

The first time that Stiles finally lays eyes on Derek Hale is at the station.

He steps out of his dad's office to take everyone's order for lunch, and promptly freezes at the sight of the werewolf standing with Officer Alan.

His fingers clench tight around the notepad in his hand as the older man's eyes zero in on him, no doubt picking up on Laura's scent from nights spent sitting in her room, curled up on her bed.

All he can think as they look at each other is that Derek _has Laura's eyes_.

Stiles is through the door before he can say “super speed,” fumbling in his jacket pocket for the keys to his jeep.

He tears out of the parking lot so fast that he almost hits a pedestrian in the process and heads straight for Wong’s Chinese takeaway restaurant, which everyone had settled on for lunch.

It isn't until he's standing in the queue that he realizes he'd forgotten to get everyone's order.

He almost drops his cell when he pulls it from his pocket and dials the station.

Jimmy answers on the first ring, sounding worried as he asks where Stiles went, and why he ran off, and is everything alright? “Oh God, you're not having another panic attack are you?”

Stiles feels a wave of shame pass over him; embarrassment over his black-out on the Hale property.

“Uh, no, Jim. I'm fine, really. I just need to know what everyone wants from Wong's,” he explains quickly, hoping to assure the officer, so that he doesn't feel the need to call up his father and tell him about Stiles' strange behavior.

Being the wonderful human being that he is, Jimmy runs around the office, collecting orders for Stiles, who relays them to the quiet lady at the counter. It's the same woman that always takes his orders for the officers at the station, and every time he comes in, she fixes him with the same glare; like he is personally ruining everything good on the planet Earth.

Things go pretty smoothly, all evil Chinese ladies aside.

At least, right up until Jimmy has to go and make things awkward.

“This is about Derek Hale, isn't it?” he asks, and Stiles can _hear_ him frown.

“What?” the teenager replies, because he'd thought this was about Chinese food.

“Look, Stiles, if you ever want to talk, I'm here, okay?” he says quietly, and it's an echo of what every other officer at the station has been telling him for the past week. But it's different with Jimmy, because he's the youngest officer under his dad's watch, one of the few that Stiles can easily relate to, and the teen knows that he's being sincere about this.

“Yeah, man, of course. I know that,” Stiles insists. His voice wobbles a little when he answers, and he hates himself for it.

The woman at the counter gives him a funny look as she hands over three bags of food, which he overpays for, not even really bothering to count out the bills in his hurry to get out of the restaurant.

“I mean it,” Jimmy says. “You're important to me- to us! As in the people here at the station!”

He blows out a breath over the line.

“Stiles,” he sounds all kinds of determined now, and Stiles frowns, wondering what's got him sounding so serious. “Look, I want- I mean, no, I _need_ to know if,”

“Holy God!” Stiles shouts, because he's just slipped into the driver's side of his jeep, and Scott is sitting in the passenger seat, watching him like the grade A stalker that he is.

“Stiles? Stiles!”

“Hey, Jimmy, I'm just...gonna call you back, okay?”

He hangs up quickly, leaning back in his seat and pressing his hand to his chest as he swallows his heart. His fingers brush against the signet ring that hangs from the chain around his throat, tucked carefully beneath his shirt.

Scott glares at him, looking seven different shades of pissed, and Stiles thinks about the 27 voicemails and 31 texts that he hasn't listened to or read.

“Heeeeey, Scott, buddy,” he says with an awkward laugh, and this time he rubs his hand over the ring.

Scott's jaw clenches. “We need to talk.”

-

_Stiles maintains his animosity towards the eldest Hale twin for another month before things change._

_Honestly, it's hard to hate someone after they take a bullet for you._

_He stumbles into the Stilinski house mid-morning, hauling a limping Laura Hale with him as he goes, and he can't quite help the relief that surges through him when he realizes that his father is patrolling across town, well away from any danger that he and Laura may have attracted from their trek through the woods._

_Stiles doesn't want his dad involved in any of this, especially since he's not even sure what he's gotten himself into yet._

_Laura groans as he lowers her onto his mattress, and he can feel her eyes on him as he scrambles to yank the wolfs bane bullets from his pocket._

_He drops them twice before he finally manages to get a firm grip on them._

_“Tell me what to do,” he demands, and so what if he sounds a little shaken. This is life or death they're dealing with._

_The Alpha whines low in the back of her throat, and Stiles gives her shoulder a shake to get her attention._

_She doesn't quite snarl at him, but it's a near thing, her eyes flashing bright red as the movement makes the pain worsen._

_Laura is nothing if not in control, though. She chokes on a wounded noise and tries to focus._

_“Th-the bullet. You need to open the casing and dump the powder out.”_

_“Powder?” Stiles asks, staring at the bullet with a mystified look on his face._

_“The monkshood that's in the casing!” Laura says angrily. And loudly._

_“Whoa, okay!” he replies, just as angrily, and he spends the next few moments scrambling around his room, trying to something to open the bullet with._

_He finally settles on a hammer that he—no joke—finds in one of his desk drawers._

_Laura looks kind of incredulous, like she's got some serious questions for him, but she wisely does not voice her curiosity._

_Which is a good thing, because Stiles is sure that it would have led to a full on ramble about the dangers of indoor, unsupervised construction attempts._

_His dad still doesn't know about the 3x3 foot hole in the wall of his closet._

_But, whatever, so not important right now._

_The bullet opens up with a few quick taps of the hammer head against the cartridge, and pours the monkshood dust out onto the surface of his desk._

_When he turns back to Laura for further instruction, he's greeted with a zippo to the face._

_He is scowling as he follows her command; dumping the wolfs bane into a dish that was lying around and lighting it up._

_The Alpha quickly takes the dish from him and dumps the dust into her hand._

_She screams as she grinds it into the bullet hole just below her right collarbone._

_And then she's tipping back onto the bed, panting harshly and scrubbing at her eyes as Stiles sinks onto the bed beside her, watching the blue spider web veins disappear, along with the bullet hole._

_He is hesitant to speak, but he just can't help himself._

_“Are you...?”_

_“I am_ not _crying,” Laura says quickly, her voice sharp, if a little wobbly._

_“Of course not,” he yelps, because he doesn't actually want to die. “Obviously there is something in your eye.”_

_“Probably some of the powder,” she agrees._

_“Yeah!” he replies, before flopping back down on the bed, because his eyelids are drooping, now that the adrenaline rush is wearing off._

_He lets out a heavy sigh, and Laura tilts her head to look at him, her eyes red but otherwise dry._

_When Stiles turns his head to face her, he can't help but note that she looks about as tired as he feels._

_It probably has something to do the whole near-death thing._

_“Thank you—for, you know,” he tells her, completely sincere, and the look that she sends him is just this side of thrilled._

_“I told you, Stiles, you can trust me. I can't guarantee your safety, but I can tell you that I'll always try my hardest to protect both you and your father,” she told him fiercely, and he gets the feeling that this is important, and Laura_ needs _him to believe this, if nothing else._

_He nods his head in acknowledgement, and she smiles at him, full and genuine. It lasts all of five seconds, before she suddenly goes rigid beside him, and then the front door slams open below, and he can hear hurried footsteps on the stairs._

_Stiles leaps off the bed, flailing, and lunges for the hammer on his desk, wondering if another hunter has tracked them back here. He glances towards Laura, desperate for a little guidance, and is both alarmed and kind of turned on when, instead, he finds her pulling off her shirt. He blinks, wondering if maybe this whole night has been nothing but a dream._

_“Down boy,” she tells him, voice muffled as she pulls on one of his plaid button-up shirts._

_The door shoves open then, and Stiles shouts in surprise, rearing his hammer back as his father storms into the room, gun at the ready._

_“Dad!” he yells, genuinely startled. “What the hell are you doing? Waving a gun around!”_

_Samuel Stilinski looks a little less frantic and a lot angrier as he lowers his fire-arm and tucks it into the holster at his belt. But he huffs out a breath and pulls his son into a hug, ignoring the hammer that drops to the floor as Stiles bemusedly pats his back._

_“What's up?” the teen asks with a frown, because he hasn't seen his dad freak out like this since he fell out of Mrs. Barnel's apple tree when he was nine and broke his arm._

_His father pulls out of the hug and shoots him that exasperated look that he likes to wear when Stiles is up to something particularly illegal._

_“Are you kidding?” the Sheriff says, and he scrubs one hand over his face. “I was on my way to the station, and I got news that one of the neighbors called in to report screaming!”_

_He finally looks over to Laura and pauses when he catches sight of what she's wearing._

_Stiles can see the wheels turning in his dad's head._

_“We were watching a movie!” he says loudly. “A horror movie; in the dark, and we reacted badly, I guess. I jumped and spilled my juice on Laura, and since it's laundry day, she didn't have anything to wear.”_

_“So you offered,” the older man concludes._

_“Yeah, I offered one of my shirts.”_

_His dad doesn't quite look like he believes them, in fact it's obvious what he thinks_ really _happened, but there's no evidence to disprove the bullshit story that Stiles just pulled out of his ass, so he can't really call them out on it._

_Instead, he simply nods._

_“Right, okay,” he says slowly, and he visibly forces himself to relax. “In that case, I'm going to head back into the station, but,” he pauses for a moment, “just, uh, be_ careful _, okay?” He raises his eyebrows at the two, and Stiles can feel the blood as it rushes to his face._

 _“Dad,_ God _. Oh my God,” the teen says, scrubbing a hand over his face much in the same way that his father had only a moment ago. “Just, yes, alright. I'll see you later, okay?”_

_The Sheriff nods again, shrugs his shoulders. “Okay. Bye, Laura. Son, I love you.”_

_“Yeah, I love you too, dad,” Stiles replies quickly, and he and Laura watch as Sam leaves the room, shaking his head and muttering under his breath about juice._

_The two teenagers listen carefully as he makes his way out of the house, the front door slamming behind him. Only then do they risk sharing a look, wide-eyed and nervous._

_“Did your dad just give us permission to have sex?” Laura says into the stillness of the room._

_“Uh, yes. Yes, I think he did.”_

_Laura is the first to break, her laughter full and amused as she drops back down to the foot of his bed, squeezing her eyes closed as they water, and it sets Stiles off._

_They look at each other and they laugh and they laugh and they laugh._

_Later, Stiles places the extra wolfs bane bullet in one of his desk drawer, just in case._

_-_

“Are we ever going to talk about this?” Scott wonders later that night, as they step up to the Hale house. The porch groans with every step he takes, and it makes him worry that he might just fall straight through if he's not quick enough. He says, “We're going to talk about this,” more decisively. “You promised we'd talk about this.”

He can practically hear his friend's eyeballs rolling around in his head.

“What is there to talk about?” the other teen asks, and he sounds more tired than Scott has ever heard him. He doesn't let that deter him, though. Stiles needs to talk, whether he wants to or not.

“Jee, I don't know,” he says sarcastically. “Maybe the fact that you haven't answered any of my calls; that you've been avoiding me for the past two weeks...” he trails off when he realizes that they've wandered into the kitchen, and Stiles is pulling open the burnt up oven door, reaching inside for something.

It's dark in the house, nearly pitched-black, but moonlight streams through the window in the kitchen, lighting the room up just enough for them to see.

“What are we even doing here?” he demands, watching as, after a moment, his best friend stuffs books into his back pack. Which, now that he thinks about it, seems kind of out of place, considering that school is still a month off. “What is that?”

Stiles is quiet as he zips his bag up and shuts the oven door, but he at least has the courtesy to answer Scott's questions when he turns around.

“It's just some stuff that Laura left for me, it's not important,” he replies with a shrug, and the other boy can practically taste the lie as if he had told it himself.

“Look, Scott,” Stiles says as he leads the way back into the living room, “it's really not a big deal. I just got caught up helping my dad with some stuff at work.”

Scott is, obviously, quite skeptical. “Your dad never lets you help with work,” he reminds.

Something in the house creeks and both boys freeze in place, Scott standing just behind his best friend.

They stay that way for a few minutes, before Stiles seems to shake it off and he strides towards the door like he can't get there fast enough.

Scott hurries along behind him, chest tightening with his pace, and he wheezes.

He opens his mouth to say _something_.

“Why didn't you go to Laura's funeral?”

And that wasn't it. He hadn't meant to say that. In fact, he'd meant to say anything _but_ that.

Stiles was right in front of the door, but he swings around to Scott just as the other boy rounds the banister, so that they are standing parallel to each other at the bottom of the stairs, and Scott can see just over his friends shoulder. He can see a pair of squinting red eyes that glare at him from within the dark hallway behind his friend.

And Stiles. Stiles is furious; his mouth is open, nose scrunched up in anger as he prepares to say something biting, but Scott is already grabbing at him, pushing him behind his own body as a _fucking wolf_ leaps out from the hall and _sinks it's damn teeth_ into his side.

“Scott!” Stiles screams.

“ _Scott!_ ”

-

_“Happy Birthday!” Laura says as she leaps onto the bed, loud and happy._

_She lands on his legs and he groans at her, trying to burrow further into his pillow as she tugs at the comforter that he's got tucked up around his ears._

_“Get up, get up, get up!” the intruder demands, until Stiles finally flops over onto his back. Or, at least, as best he can with 140 pounds of dead weight pinning his legs to the bed._

_“What do you waaaaaant?” he draws out, taking the pillow that he'd been hiding under and smacking Laura in the face with it._

_She huffs at him, amused, and snatches the pillow out of his hand, only to replace it with...a box._

_Stiles jerks upright into a sitting position, nearly knocking noses with Laura, and he clutches at the gift. He traces the triskele that has been carved into the top of the wooden box, curiosity colouring his features._

_“This is...”_

_“My family crest,” she confirms, hugging the stolen pillow and biting her bottom lip. “Open it!” the werewolf demands impatiently, and Stiles shoots her an amused look and obeys._

_His eyebrows jump up to his hairline as he admires the dagger that lays inside, pillowed in the red velvet that lines the box._

_“Whoa,” the teen breathes, tracing the hilt, before he pulls it out from the case, testing the balance. “Is this...?”_

_Laura nods._

_“Pure silver.”_

_-_

The blade is in his hand before he can even think about it, and he presses Scott back, behind him as he swings the dagger out in an arc.

He catches the Alpha right in the maw, cutting so far into his cheek that he sees bone and fang, and it splits the beast's lips open wide. The separated skin flaps when it roars, and it's a gruesome thing to see.

Stiles can hear the way the wolf's flesh sizzles and smell the way it burns in reaction to the silver, even as it rears back, snarling in pain.

He doesn't even think about it as he pulls a terrified Scott to his feet and shoves him at the front door. As he backs out of the house, his best friend's hand clutching at the fabric of his plaid button-up, he wields his dagger like it's a damn broad sword, just waiting for the Alpha to come after them. But it doesn't. They make it to the jeep, and Stiles shoves Scott into the passenger seat through the driver's side door, before scrambling in after him. He doesn't dare set down the dagger for fear that the beast might pop up again, but his right hand is shaking so bad that he fumbles his car keys twice before he manages to slip them into the ignition and turn over the engine.

The Alpha doesn't follow them through the woods or down the road or to Stiles' house, but the teen still doesn't set his weapon down until he and Scott are in his bedroom at the Stilinski house, and then he only sets it down because he has to treat his friend's bite.

The werewolf bite. From the werewolf. From the Alpha.

His hands shake as he cleans up the wound, because he knows what this means. This means that, in 24 hours, if Scott's body doesn't reject the bite, he will be a werewolf.

He reaches up for the signet ring again, but this time he clutches at it so hard that he can feel the design carved on the top.

It won't help him, but he wishes desperately for Laura; for her guidance.

They had planned to tell Scott about everything, but not like this. He was _never_ supposed to find out like this.

Doesn't matter now, Stiles thinks, as he tapes a large pad of gauze over Scott's side, chewing on his lip as he stares down at sleepy, confused eyes. The other boy is spread out on the bed when Stiles steps away to lock the window

(not that it will really keep anything out)

and he nudges him onto his uninjured side when he returns, curling around him from behind and tugging the covers up over them.

They fall asleep that way, with Scott's arm folded over Stiles' around his waist, and the taller teen's free arm curled under his pillow, fingers tight around the silver dagger hidden there.

-

_“I got you something else,” Laura says later that night, her words quiet so as not to wake up Sam. She and Stiles are curled up on the couch and sharing a blanket as Han Solo and Princess Leia argue on their little television in the living room._

_His dad had barely made it five minutes into the movie before passing out._

_It had been a long day._

_Stiles squints at Laura, now, in the darkness, and she holds something out to him. It's a small silver ring, and he once again recognizes the symbol that swirls on the top; a triskele. He knows that it isn't pure silver, like the dagger, because the werewolf's delicate fingers are unmarred in the spots where they touch the metal. Still, the craftsmanship is beautiful and it draws Stiles in, almost as if by magic._

_He reaches out to touch, to take, but stops himself at the last minute, pulls back._

_“Laura, I don't,” he begins, but then cuts himself off, because Laura is grasping his hand and sliding the band onto his thumb._

_She says, “You're pack, Stiles. Don't argue with me on this, okay? Right now, you and Sam are all I have left.”_

_Stiles thinks about Derek Hale, living alone in New York City and on the outs with his sister because he'd gone against her wishes to return to Beacon Hills. He'd overheard one of their conversations over Skype, once. Laura had begged him to return to California._

_“I can't do this without you,” she'd said._

_“I'm sorry,” Derek had told her, “I can't.”_

_And that had been that._

_He grasps at her hand when she moves to pull away, holds it tight and settles their locked hands between them as they both turn to look back at the television screen. Laura's shoulders shake from where she sits beside him; she sniffles, and Stiles blinks to clear blurry eyes._

_“Damn dust,” Laura says, voice wobbling, and he chokes on a laugh._

_He says, “I'll clean tomorrow,” even though they both know that allergies have nothing to do with it._

_They're quiet for a long moment, and Stiles listens to his father snore, feels Laura's thumb smooth over his and catch on the band that circles the digit._

_He doesn't find out who it belongs to until he meets Peter Hale seven months later._

_-_

Laura is playing with his hair when he wakes up at twelve in the afternoon on a Saturday morning. It has grown out since she went missing those two weeks ago, but not by much. Still, she ruffles it, pushes it everywhichway and grins at the result. She says, “It's weird; seeing it so long.”

Stiles shrugs as he stares up at her from his position on the bed, lying flat against the sheets and his pillow. He glances around, looks for Scott and wonders where he is when he can't find him. But then he hears the sound of silverware on plates from downstairs and relaxes just a little bit.

Just like that, he loses interest, looking back to the young woman—the teen propped up beside him. She is beautiful, just as she has always been, even as she frowns down at his chest. She reaches out to grasp the chain that hangs around his neck, eyes flickering from the ring that hangs around it to connect with his.

“You stopped wearing it,” she says obviously, disappointed, and he tries to press back the hurt. The werewolf tugs it free and Stiles makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Stiles,” she says urgently, when he reaches for the band. “When I gave this to you I had no intention of taking it back. Not even when Derek and I started talking again. You are family, Stiles; you are _pack_. And you always will be.”

She stares at him, her expression fierce, her gaze stuck on his.

“Do you understand, Stiles? Stiles, do you,”

He wakes up clutching the chain in the same hand with the thumb that the ring circles.

It is ten in the morning and there is noise filtering upstairs from what Stiles can only imagine to be the kitchen, because it is the familiar sound of silverware again ceramic plates. Scott and his father's laughter is loud and pleasant as it drifts through the hall, and it settles in his chest, heavy and warm. The chain presses a pattern into his palm and fingers the way it does every time he clutches at it, and he lets it go. He just lets it drop to the bed as he breathes in heavily.

And then he lets the comforter cover it up as he tosses the blanket aside and stands up.

The two men in the kitchen are happy to greet him when he hits the bottom of the stairs, and they both look fine; whole and healthy.

Despite all that they had gone through last night, Scott doesn't look even a little bit upset. In fact he waves to his best friend and pulls out the chair at his side. Stiles stares at it for a moment before he accepts, dropping down into the chair and reaching out to fill up his plate as his dad and his friend continue their previous conversation.

He can wait until later to talk about what had happened last night and what it all means.

It's about time Scott and his dad know what's going on.

-

_“I don't want to tell him.”_

_“C'mon, think about this logically. Having the Sheriff on our side? We wouldn't have to keep lying to him about what's been going on, and he could help us out when we run into trouble—you know—law-wise.”_

_“No,” Stiles tells Laura firmly. “We're—we're not doing that, Laura.”_

_The lycan's expression is a picture in frustration, pinched and lined with how upset she is. She says, “Stiles,” and her tone is determined, but he's not having any of it._

_“It's too dangerous. We're off in the woods, fighting wendigo and sprites and other_ werewolves _every other damn night. I don't want my dad mixed up in that crap! He deserves a normal life!” he really wants to be angry about it, but his voice is more pleading than anything else._

_And Laura—she looks like she wants to be mad, but she just can't seem to muster the emotion up._

_Downstairs, there is noise in the kitchen, reminding the pair that Scott is fixing up lunch for them, so Stiles quiets his voice._

_“I'm not, I'm not saying_ never _, okay? I'm just saying not now.” Because his dad has been so happy lately, and he's been so happy lately, with Laura in the house. Everything just feels so right in the house, in a way it hasn't in a long time, and Stiles isn't about to ruin that by springing werewolves on him. At least, not yet._

 _Before Laura can say anything else, her phone starts up a jaunty tune, and she reaches into her pocket, barely glancing at the screen before she answers. “Hey, Der-Bear,” and even though she's_ trying _for cheerful, her voice is still strained, and she very carefully does not look at him as she's leaving the room._

_Jealousy settles hot and heavy in the cavern of his chest, and his shoulders droop as he watches her go. It's silly, because Stiles knows that Derek is Laura's brother, and he has been her main priority since they started speaking again in October, but that doesn't make it any easier to accept._

_“What?” he hears her say in the hall. “No, I'm fine. Really.”_

_She is not fine; the truth is, Laura hasn't been fine in a long time, and Stiles feels like every time they have this conversation, he's just making her worse. Especially when it comes to subjects like this._

_Stiles knows that one day Laura will leave Beacon Hills, probably to go back to New York, and his life will return to normal, like she was never there. Some days, when his skin is stained blue with murlock blood or his chest is tight because a witch has hexed him with a breathless curse, he looks forward to the peace and quiet that will follow her departure. But then he thinks of sci-fi marathons between just he and Scott, or digging through his dad's work files on his own. He thinks of Laura in the city, probably back in the university library, working just so that she has something to do, while her brother attends classes to earn his degree in science._

_Lately, Stiles feels like he already misses Laura. It's his own imaginings, he knows. She is no different than she was in the days when she wasn't speaking to Derek, but he can't help but feel like he's lost her to her brother._

_Scott steps into the room at the same time that the Camaro fires up in the front yard. His hands are empty, and Stiles isn't surprised. He and his dad haven't got to the grocery store in weeks; there's probably little to nothing in the fridge and cabinets. “Where'd Laura go?” are the first words out of his friends mouth, and he shrugs. He never knows where Laura runs off to when she's upset._

_To the Hale house, maybe. Possibly to the cemetery, which is usually where he gets to when he's upset, and talk about morbid._

_He'd asked, once, but she'd deflected._

_All he knows is that she disappears when she needs time away from things. There was a time when she'd come to his room and bury her face in his pillow while he did homework on his computer. But apparently now he's become one of the things she runs from. He tries not to feel bitter about that._

_“Does it matter?” he asks Scott and, yeah, he's kind of pissed._

_There's this look on Scott's face, it's something like pity, and Stiles really wants to hate him for it. Honestly, he puts some effort into it. But it's Scott—the guy is practically impossible to hate._

_The other teen says, “So, there wasn't anything in the kitchen to eat,” and Stiles scrubs a hand over his face and looks around the attic. They're supposed to be cleaning the place out, but now he doesn't really feel up to it. “Let's go to Jo's,” he suggests, thinking a greasy diner burger sounded great right about now. Plus, he can just bring dinner home from there, and he won't have to worry about grocery shopping until tomorrow._

_Scott's face lights up at the mention of Jo's and he nods enthusiastically._

_“I'm driving!” the other boy shouts as he darts from the room._

_Stiles bolts after him. “Scott!” he yells, “Scott, you are not driving my jeep!”_

_-_

Laura always lists—or, well, she _had_ always listed two people in the emergency contact section when she applied for jobs. Stiles had always absently noted this when he observed her filling out the applications throughout the months after her move into the Stilinski residence. Oddly enough, neither of her contacts had been her twin. He had been glad for it back then; now he just feels guilty.

But, nevertheless, he knew both of her contacts very well.

The first was his father, and the second was Alan Deaton.

In the year following his meeting with Laura, Stiles had spent more time with the veterinarian than was normal for someone who didn't work under the man. He would know, Scott works in the office, and he doesn't even know his boss' first name was 'Alan.' And he definitely doesn't know that the guy is some kind of high-powered supernatural shaman.

The good doctor had been their go-to for everything from magic octopi to vampires; and, in one bizarre case, a vampiric octopus. Which is why it only strikes Stiles as logical that he approach the guy about Scott's sudden lycanthropy.

Stiles feels like, if anyone can help him with this, it's Deaton.

Because he is incapable of handling this on his own. Stiles has done a lot of things in the last year that he'd never thought he'd experience outside of a Buffy episode, but he is in no position to train a werewolf. Maybe if Laura was here--

But she's not. Laura is dead, and he's never going to see her again. He has to remind himself of that in the morning, when he goes to wake her, and he has to do the same thing now, as he steps out of the jeep  and Deaton locks the door to his office. He gets the feeling that the vet has to do the same thing, because the guy pauses when he turns to look at Stiles. He gets a surprised look on his face, and the teen recognizes it as the same one that he wears when he sets out that extra plate of eggs every morning.

The doctor gets this apologetic look on his face.

“Stiles,” he says as he moves over. “What can I do for you today?”

The teen doesn't even think about it, just blurts out, “Scott's been bitten!”

Deaton doesn't look the least bit surprised and, not for the first time, Stiles can't help but wonder if the guy is psychic.

“I-I need your help; I don't know what to do with him, or how to help him, and the full moon is next week,”

“Stiles,”

“ _Please._ ” The younger man says, “I can't do this without you _._ ”

I can't do this without her _,_ is what he thinks.

The doctor looks even sorrier now.

He tells Stiles, “I'm sorry.”

He tells Stiles, “I can't.”

He doesn't say, “I won't,” but Stiles knows that's what he means, really.

“I would help if I could, Stiles, but I'm afraid that I don't know anything about bitten werewolves.”

The teen doesn't need super hearing to know the older man is lying to him, but he doesn't call him out on it. Instead he accepts what Deaton tells him with a nod and a brittle smile.

Stiles tries his best not to resent him, but that only lasts about three days, right up until he finds himself tracking his best friend through the woods on a late Saturday night, rifle in hand and stocked up on tranquilizers powerful enough to take down a damn elephant.

Note to self _,_ he thinks, hand-cuffs and radiators do not make for good werewolf-restraints _._

He says, “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” because it figures that he'd fuck up on his first night as werewolf-trainer-extraordinaire.

There is howling in the distance, long and low. Stiles can tell just by sound that Scott is quite a bit ahead of him, so he's understandably confused when he hears the snap of a branch behind him, the crunch of leaves. He's expecting the Alpha when he turns, rifle tucked up against his shoulder, but the thunk of an arrow in the tree to his left assures him that he's fallen prey to an entirely different beast tonight.

Hunters.

“Hey!”

“Stop!”

The small group on his trail is quick, probably much faster than him, but he's lived in Beacon Hills his entire life; he probably knows the forest better than even Laura had, and right now it's the perfect advantage. He slings the strap on his rifle over his shoulder and grabs onto a low-hanging branch, using it to swing himself up into a tree. It's late August, so most of the trees in the forest are still full with leaves. It makes for some pretty awesome camouflage, and the hunters think they have lost him when they near his location. They break off into three separate directions, hoping to find him, and he tracks one back to Laura's house.

He's easy to knock out; the tranquilizers help, but it takes forever to drag him up into the house. Radiators might not make good restraints for werewolves, but they should definitely hold a hunter, no matter how resourceful.

Stiles is very careful to strip him of any potential weapons, and he closes the hand-cuffs tight, just to be sure.

The other man's name is Warren Byrne, and Stiles recognizes him by name alone, when he reads it off the man's driver's license. This guy is important, he knows, because the Byrne name is pretty well-known in the Hunting community; almost as well-known as Argent.

He frowns down at Warren, doesn't know what to think, and then stops thinking all together as a howl echoes off in the distance, followed by the crack of a gunshot. He practically throws himself through the front door, rifle gripped tight in hand, and heart pounding as he runs into the tree line, in the direction where he last saw Scott heading.

His only thoughts as he races through the trees, jumping over roots and rocks, are that he has to keep Scott safe.

When a hand darts out from behind a trunk to grab at his sleeve, he rams his rifle into his attacker's wrist and brings the butt of his gun up sharp and quick to smack the girl in the face. Stiles cringes with his whole body as he watches her fall to the forest floor, unconscious. His dad has been teaching him since he can remember that an attacker is an attacker, no matter what the gender, but he's never going to be okay with hitting a girl.

He doesn't get much of a chance to feel guilty about it, though, because her partner is quick to defend her honor by full-on body tackling Stiles to the ground, and they both spit out leaves when Stiles pushes up and elbows the third hunter, right in the solarplexes, like he was taught.

The boy—and Stiles knows he's just a kid, there's no way this guy can be any older than he is—wheezes, but rolls to his feet just as quick as Stiles does, pulling out a knife as big as his fore-arm as the teen scrambles for his rifle. But it's six feet away, lying next to henchwoman #2, and he only has enough time to curse before he has to jump back to avoid being gutted.

He stumbles backwards, trips over a tree root and lands on his tailbone, hard enough to ache. God, it hurts so bad that he doesn't even want to move, but he grapples with the forest floor anyway, grasping for anything to use as a weapon as he attacker approaches. The branch is short, but it does the trick, and the other man is quickly de-weaponed before he can do any permanent damage.

But that doesn't mean much, because even without a weapon, this kid has had more training in combat than Stiles—of _course_ he has; he's a hunter.

“Holy God,” Stiles hisses, just before the other guy's hands close tight around his throat. He flops around, bucks his hips to knock the kid off-balance, swings his hand up to knock him off with his branch, but none of it works.

Henchman #1 is trained and he is determined to take Stiles out of the equation. The steely look in his eyes is terrifying, and it makes Stiles fight harder than ever, even though he knows it's a bad idea. Struggling just robs him of more air, but there's no way he's going to go down without a fight. He refuses.

Being strangled to death is a little bit like a panic attack, he notes vaguely. There's no air to take in, his vision starts to dim around the edges, his hearing goes, and his pulse jacks up with his struggle. It's like feeling the world through wax paper. Everything is muffled and smoky.

His body is just on the brink of shutting down when the kid is ripped off him so hard that nails tear bloody marks into the soft skin of Stiles' neck, where he'd gripped tighter in an attempt to hold on.

Having his senses return so suddenly is almost as painful as having them ripped away. He blinks sluggishly, clings to the grass on the ground like it's the only thing keeping him from floating up into the sky. The moonlight is brighter than before, it hurts, but not as much as the sharp sound of Scott's barking growls as he tosses Stiles' attacker into a nearby tree.

“Scott,” he wheezes, and his throat contracts painfully around his words. “No,” he says, a little louder this time, as his best friend's hand closes tight around the hunter's throat in a mirror of the scene that he'd played in a few minutes earlier. He crawls over to where Scott has the other man pinned beneath him and grips the teen's wrist, as Scott's claws draw blood from henchman #1's throat.

The werewolf grits fanged teeth as he desperately tries to hold himself back. He chokes, “Stiles.”

“Yeah, buddy, it's me,” Stiles tells his friend, and brings another hand up to grip the other boy's shoulder. “Scott, you gotta let go, man. C'mon,” he pleads, tempted to pry fingers from the hunter's neck, but smart enough not to.

“I can't,” the teen sobs. “Stiles, I can't. Please, help me,” he begs.

Stiles swallows thickly, tries to think back on everything that Laura taught him about werewolves, born and bitten. “Try...try to find an anchor, Scott. Focus on something that calms you down; something that makes you happy.”

Scott turns his head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed, golden eyes narrowed, and his fingers gradually loosen from their hold around his attacker's throat. The stranger is unconscious, but at least he's still alive.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually the teen wolf pries himself away.

“That's it,” Stiles says, relieved. “C'mon,” he tells his friend, leading him away from the hunters and through the trees and towards the Hale house.

Scott's eyes glint ominously half an hour later, when Stiles is locking him up in the cell in the basement.

“It's alright,” the brunette promises. “Everything's going to be fine.”

Then he settles down with his rifle in-hand and waits for morning.

-

_Life in the Stilinski household is stifling, and Stiles has no idea what to do about it._

_Laura is gone all the time, his father takes extra shifts to avoid the quiet in the house, and Scott has stopped coming around, because he doesn't know how to deal with Stiles' hot and cold mood swings when Laura is there or gone._

_And during those rare moments, when Laura, Stiles, and his dad are actually together, conversation is stilted and awkward._

_Things don't get better until December._

_Derek is due for a visit during the week of Thanksgiving._  
  
(Nothing brings people together like holiday cheer.)

_He never shows up._

_Instead, the Stilinski family, plus Laura, spends Thanksgiving dinner quietly eating, before Stiles and Sam retreat to the living room to watch football. For once, Laura doesn't join them._

_(Also, nothing tears people apart like holiday cheer.)_

_Stiles tries not to be so unbelievably pleased about it; he tries not to smile that much more when Derek calls to cancel. Judging by Laura's ever-building anger, he's not very successful._

_They fight more, for sure. They fight so much that Stiles isn't even sure that they've shared more than two words between them without shouting for the last month._

_One particularly bad argument has Stiles storming out of the house two days after Thanksgiving._

_It is the last contact anyone has with him for seven long days._

-

Stiles wakes up to Scott tossing pebbles at him through the bars of the cell he's locked in. One catches along the curve of his ear and he snorts into consciousness, nearly knocking himself over with the force of his own awakening.

Scott grins at him through the bars, and it's less frightening than it was the night before, when his fangs had curved over his lips.

Warren is gone and the radiator is broken, but Stiles doesn't go looking for him. Instead he hauls his best friend back to town.

They sit at Jo's for breakfast and consume more in one sitting than they usually do in a day.

Apparently spending an entire night running from trained hunters works up an appetite, who knew.

As she's serving them, Jo looks at them like she's got the Sheriff's number, and she's about ready to put it to good use because of the way they look alone.

Then she says, “I've got your dad's number, and I'm 'bout ready to put it to good use. The hell have you boys been up to? You two doin' drugs?”

Stiles looks at her blankly for a moment, while Scott mumbles to himself.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” the teen wolf says under his breath.

Jo lets them go once they assure her that, no, they're not doing drugs, or in a gang, or a cult, there weren't any guns involved, or knives, and the boys didn’t gank anyone.

They do their best to try and convince her not to call their parents, but Stiles knows that Jo makes the call before they're even in the car.

His dad is definitely going to have some questions the next time they see each other.

Things are quiet between them on the drive back to the house, but Scott it twitchy with his questions, and his eyes keep darting to the scratches and bruises on his friend's neck. The guilt he's feeling might as well be written on his forehead in permanent ink, it's so obvious.

“I'm okay,” Stiles insists, and his voice is a croak when he speaks.

It's the truth, though. It _hurts_ ; he's in pain, but he's also okay.

No big deal, he thinks. Just a few more scars to add to the rest.

“I mean, I'm gonna have to wear turtle-necks for a while, but I hear they're kind of in this season, so what the heck,” he says while they're stopped at an intersection, hoping to lighten the mood.

It works, Scott relaxes back into his seat, and he returns the smile that Stiles sends his way, even though his face still looks a little strained and pouty as he does so.

It's not everything that Stiles was hoping for, but it's something, and right now, he'll take whatever he can get.

He is absolutely right about those questions he thought his dad would have. Except there are less questions and more righteous anger.

“ _Jesus_ , Stiles,” he hisses, practically nose-to-nose with his son.

Warm hands tilt Stiles' head this way and that as the Sheriff exams the damage to his neck. He is furious, but his grip is careful. His voice, on the other hand, is dangerous. “Who did this?”

And this is it.

Stiles could lay it all out right now. He could tell his dad about all of it; the Argents and werewolves and every other supernatural creature that he has encountered since Laura came into their lives. It would be easy to prove, all he would have to do it call up Scott and have him transform. He could tell his dad about the amazing things he has seen and done. He could tell his dad about the awful things he has seen and done.

That's not really why he lies, Stiles thinks. It's not like his father wouldn't accept him, especially knowing that Stiles has always had the best intentions in everything – well, most – okay, some of the things he does, but something makes him say, “I didn't get a good look at them,” instead of, “Oh, ha ha, yeah, so both of my best friends are werewolves.”

“Last night, when we went to rent movies, I waited outside while Scott picked some stuff out. These three guys in ski masks came along and pulled me out of the jeep,” he says quickly, as his dad releases his chin. “I guess their aim was money, but I didn't exactly have any on me, so.” He shrugs.

“And—what—Scott just stood by and let it happen?” Damn, and he sounds so _angry_.

“No, Pop, jeez!” Stiles says, exasperated. “Trust me, Scott was ready to chase the idiots down and tear them apart for me, but he didn't get out of the store until they'd already run off.”

His dad doesn't look like he completely believes him, but he says, “Three boys robbed a gas station off Valiant Rd. last night; it was reported that they were wearing ski masks,” and, jeez, what are the chances, seriously. “Was one of them wearing a blue hoodie?”

Stiles doesn't really think about it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, he was.”

In for a penny, in for a pound, right?

And Sam just looks at him, because he knows Stiles is lying to him. He _knows_ it, but he doesn't get why his son would lie to him about _this_.

He lets it go, though.

Stiles watches him take a breath and nod, and he can just see his dad count to ten in his head.

“C'mon,” he says, and he grabs the keys off the table in the entry way. “I'm taking you to the hospital,” and he continues, when Stiles opens his mouth to disagree, “and _don't_ argue with me.”

Later that night, at the Sheriff's station, Andrew Losen struggles against Jimmy as the deputy hauls him towards the cells by his blue hoodie. “Wait!” he shouts. “You can't do this; I didn't beat anyone up!”

-

_Stiles doesn't remember anything._

_He wakes up in the hospital seven days after his disappearance and spends three days there, healing from a variety of wounds that leave him with nasty scars. His dad questions him, Laura questions him, the entirety of BHPD questions him, but he has no answers for any of them. He remembers nothing of those seven missing days._

_Laura is soft with him, careful and caring. She drives him to school every day and takes him lunch and tucks him in on the couch, where he spends most of his time recuperating, because he can't make it up the stairs. She makes him his favorite foods almost every night, and stops sneaking his dad candy bars. If his dad wasn't so worried about him, he'd probably be outraged._

_Stiles would almost think of this as her way of apologizing, except she barely says a word to him._

_After everything that's happened, it's tiring and frustrating, and it makes him just as upset as he had been before he went missing._

_When they inevitably start fighting again, it eventually leads to Stiles' march towards the door, but he freezes with his hand on the doorknob, and silence settles heavy in the living room. Laura is absolutely still behind him, and he can feel her tension from across the room._

_And then she is beside him, deceptively delicate fingers circling his wrist and tugging._

_“I'm_ sorry _,” she says, over and over, and she sounds so horrified. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”_

_She begs, “Please don't go,” and her voice trembles._

_“I'm sorry,” she tells him again, when they're sitting on the couch a few minutes later._

_“Me too,” he admits quietly, feeling exhausted. He just can't do this anymore; he's sick of fighting._

_“I was so scared, when you were gone. Someone had_ grabbed _you, and I couldn't pick up your scent, and I thought maybe you were_ dead _.” She chokes on a sob. “And the last thing I said to you—I thought you were dead, and the last thing I told you was that I hated you!”_

_Stiles doesn't remember it. He doesn't remember anything from that day, or the seven days that followed it._

_The only evidence he has that something bad had happened during that missing time are the bruises and cuts that litter his skin, and the nightmares that plague him nightly._

_He curls thin fingers around the ball of her shoulder, gripping tight and pressing his face into her neck. “It's okay,” he insists, and he absently wonders how he'd felt about all of this when it had first happened, when Laura had first yelled at him, and he'd stormed out of the house. He wonders if it had stung as much as it does now._

_Laura's arms wind around him, squeeze him hard enough to hurt, and he grips her back just as fiercely._

_“No, it's not. I know it's not. But it will be,” she promises._

_-_

“So have you heard anything from the hunters from last night?” Scott asks him the next day, as he dumps school supplies into the cart that Stiles is pushing. He watches the other boy reach up to adjust his scarf, perhaps somewhat unconsciously.

Stiles shrugs. “Not really. I mean, when I went back to the house this morning, Mr. Byrne was long gone. I must have missed something, because those hand-cuffs were well and truly picked.”

Scott nods, looking thoughtful. He says, “Well, hopefully they’ve skipped town.” His face scrunches up and he pushes his tongue past his lips, bringing long fingers up to pull a white hair off the tip.

Stiles bites down on a grin and ducks his head to avoid the glare that his best friend is sending his way.

“By the way,” the other teen says pointedly. “Why do I keep finding clumps of fur between my teeth?”

The human chucks a package of #2 pencils into the cart. “You may or may not have eaten a bunny last night.”

“What?” Scott yelps. “Raw??”

Stiles quirks an eyebrow at him. “No,” he starts off, his tone so sarcastic that it almost _hurts_. “You stopped to bake it in your little werewolf oven.”

The two teens part ways once they’ve paid for their respected school supplies so they can get shit done before their parents get home.

His dad isn’t home when he gets there, because there is a message on his phone that says he’s been caught up at the station doing paperwork, of all things. Scott is supposed to come by later with his mom for dinner and a board game or two, but he has a room to clean before they can head over.

So Stiles is understandably relieved when he steps into the kitchen _alone_ to find Warren sitting at his kitchen table, a pear in one hand, and a gun in the other.

“Well, this is...dramatic,” he says as he cautiously sets his reusable grocery bags on top of the counter. “Is this where you start your villainous monologue before you kill and murder me dead? Because, I just want to let you know that I'm really, really against that. The killing me part, not the villainous monologue—you should be able to monologue about whatever you want, man. That's totally your right as, as a person.”

“Relax,” the hunter says, tucking his gun away. “I'm not gonna kill you.”

Stiles is pretty incredulous—he probably looks it, too. “So the gun was, what? A quick introduction: Hi, my name is Warren, and this is my gun—I like to call her Lucille.”

The other boy cocks his head to the side. “You're pretty funny when you're not knocking people out with tranquilizers in the middle of forests when the moon is full.”

“That is, huh, oddly specific,” Stiles says, like he doesn't know exactly what Warren is talking about. “But somehow I don't think you came here to discuss my comedic genius.”

“You'd be right about that,” the young man admits as he takes another bite of what was meant to be Stiles’ breakfast.

Stiles opens his mouth to say something more; something dramatically sarcastic and potentially cutting, when something clicks, and there is the sound of a door swinging open.

“I’m home!” his dad hollers from the living room, and every muscle in his body locks as he watches Warren do the same from across the room. Before he can sneak the hunter out of the house, his pop swings into the kitchen, shrugging out of his coat as he goes. He pauses when he sees their guest, but quickly eases back into his stride toward the head of the table, where he sits, slinging his jacket onto the back of the chair. He says, “I didn’t realize we were going to have more guests, aside from Melissa and Scott. Who’s this?”

“He’s—I mean, he’s a friend of mine; Warren. I met him a few weeks ago,” Stiles explains as he turns around to start unloading the grocery bags. It gives him the opportunity to wince without being seen. “When I went to get Chinese.”

“Right,” the Sheriff says with a nod. “The Chinese food that never got delivered to the station.”

The room settles into a thick silence, heavy and long, until Warren finally stands from his chair and clears his throat.

“Well, I should get going. I’m supposed to meet a few friends across town.”

Sam says, “Right,” and offers a hand for the younger man to shake. He says, “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Byrne,” which gives the other two pause.

Warren is quick to leave after that, Stiles even quicker to escort him to the door and out of the house. Before the hunter leaves, he says, “I’ll see you soon, Stiles,” which doesn’t give the teen pause, because he’s more than used to mysterious warnings and all that crap.

It’s quiet in the kitchen when Stiles heads back inside, but he doesn’t say anything about it, just goes back to starting on dinner. His dad gets up after a minute to give him a hand.

“I thought you said you were going to be late,” Stiles says as he splits an avocado in half. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his dad’s jaw clench.

“Well, I decided to leave all that paperwork for tomorrow, figured I’d come home early and surprise you,” he replies. “Surprise.”

His son opens his mouth to say something, but then quickly shuts it.

“You wanna tell me why your new friend was carrying around a gun?” he asks, and even though he keeps the volume low, his voice is loud in the quiet of the kitchen.

“He’s big on personal safety?” Stiles offers, and it’s a weak excuse; it’s so fucking weak.

His dad looks so disappointed it’s not even funny, and he’s sick of this. He’s sick to _death_ of lying all the time, especially to his dad, who is still looking to him for an explanation.

But Stiles just clenches his teeth, turns back to the cutting board, and starts chopping up tomatoes for his mango salsa.

-

_Stiles slips into the car to the welcoming sound of Laura’s irritated groan._

_“How did you find me?” she asks as she accepts the thermos of hot chocolate. She has to stretch across the console to get to it, because even though her P.I.C (Partner In Crime) is finally free of his sling, she knows he still aches when he over-reaches._

_“Scott called me from the clinic—let me know that Mr. Kitzel had reported that a dog matching your description was sighted wandering around down town,” he tells her with a grin._

_“You’re not funny,” she says back, pinching his nose and pulling from side-to-side._

_He makes a noise, swatting at her hand. He says, “I picked the lock to your room and found the information on your little rental car on the dresser, thought I’d come see what you’re up to.”_

_“I’m not_ up to _anything,” Laura huffs, sounding petulant. “I just decided it was a nice night for a drive.”_

_“To an empty parking lot, in a car that isn’t the camaro. Wait, let me guess, you’re having a secret rendezvous with Deputy Miller!” He wiggles his eyebrows at her. “This calls for some mood music; I didn’t bring my ipod with me, but I am totally willing to sing for you—Can you feel the love to-“_

_“Stiles!” Laura shouts, loud and laughing. “If you really want to go down the relationship road, why don’t we have a quick conversation about James Elizabeth Jameson?”_

_“Okay, his name is not James Elizabeth Jameson. It’s James O’Connor,” Stiles corrects._

_“The fact that you even know that-!”_

_“Nope!” he says loudly. “Besides, you_ know _I’m still madly in love with Lydia. As attractive as Deputy O’Connor may be, he can’t quite compare to the strawberry-blonde haired goddess that is the wonderful Lydia Martin.”_

_Laura groans, dropping her face into her hands. “No, don’t start!” she insists, “I don’t want to hear another word about that stuck up little bi-“_

_“Rude!” Stiles hollers at her, looking deeply offended on Ms. Martin’s behalf._

_“No, seriously—I don’t know what you see in her. I mean, she doesn’t even acknowledge your existence.”_

_“Yeah, well, that’s why,”_

_“Shut up,” Laura tells him abruptly, eyes trained on the person who just stepped out of Ellen’s bar._

_Stiles leans back in his seat and sinks down a little, because he recognizes this guy._

_It’s Mr. Harris._

_“What the hell is going on, Laura?” he hisses, completely confused. “You wanna tell me why you’re stalking my Chemistry teacher?”_

_“Not particularly,” his friend admits, her eyes not straying from said Chemistry teacher. He reaches out to grip her arm, shakes it a little._

_“_ Laura _,” he says seriously, his frown feeling unnatural on his face. But he has to know what’s going on, because she’s been acting strange all week. Well, stranger than usual._

_She finally looks at him, then, narrow eyes shifting into something weary as she runs a hand through her hair. She asks, “You really want to know?”_

_Stiles’ eyebrows pull up towards his hairline, the “duh” implied. Laura slouches and Stiles licks his lips. “This is about—about the fire isn’t it?” he says a little anxiously._

_She expels a breath, like she’s been holding it in for a good, long while. “Yeah, yeah it is.”_

_And then she opens her mouth and begins._

_-_

He meets Warren at a coffee shop in town. There are exactly two in Beacon Hills; Marigold’s little place between the hardware store and Ellen’s bar, and the Blue Moon Café on the corner of Ryder and Main. Usually he frequents Blue Moon, because it was Laura’s favorite, and they sold cinnamon lattes year-round. But last week, someone chucked a rock through the front window, and the owner had closed the place up until they could get it fixed. Even still, he had avoided Marigold’s, because Tessa Lewis works there as a barista, and when he walks in and orders today, she hands him sludge in a cup.

It is god-awful, the very worst thing that has ever passed his lips (and he’s had some pretty bad experiences with things passing his lips), but he flashes her a smile and politely sips it, determined not to let his disappointment show. Because he kind of owes Tessa.

Stand a girl up four times, shame on you. Stand a girl up five or six times, shame on, well no, still shame on you.

Warren gets exactly what he asks for. Actually, Warren gets more than what he asks for. The “more” comes in the form of a wink and some flirtatious smiling. Not that Stiles is jealous; he’s pretty much over Tessa. Really, it’s the coffee he’s disappointed about.

“So, this is a nice setting you chose here,” Stiles tells Warren for lack of anything better to say, as he sips at his sludge.

“There weren’t a whole lot of other options,” the other man admitted irritably. “There’s not exactly much to do around this shit-hole.”

Mrs. Weldon, a 78-year-old woman passing by with her grandchildren looks absolutely horrified. Her oldest grand-daughter, Sabrina, has her face screwed up in a picture of amusement.

“Hello ma’am,” Stiles says to the elderly woman. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

The woman looks like she wants to beat him and Warren senseless with her heavy purse. Instead, she ushers the kids towards the counter.

“See you at school, Stiles,” Sabrina says with a grin.

“Yup,” he replies with a nod, and Mrs. Weldon shoots him a glare.

Warren rolls his eyes and says, “Why don’t we get down to business?”

Stiles nods his agreement, of course. He’s more than a little eager to have these new hunters out of their territory—out of Beacon Hills, he mentally corrects.

“Laura called me here,” the young man starts off right away, and boy, he was definitely getting right down to business. That doesn’t mean Stiles isn’t any less pissed, though, when he just throws out his friend’s name. He opens his mouth, feeling seven different kinds of pissed, but Warren cuts him right off. He says, “Before her death, we made a deal. We came into town a few months back,”

Stiles cuts him off with a sardonic, “I remember,” as he pops the top off his coffee cup and pours excessive amounts of sugar into his sludge.

“ _Anyway_ ,” the hunter grumbles. “We promised to get lost as long as she kept an eye on things. In return, we would come to her aide as requested.” He charged forward, refusing to let Stiles jump in with a sarcastic comment. “Five weeks ago, she gave me a call—she was worried about something. She warned me that something big was going down, and she asked me to come to you.”

“Five weeks.” Though the teen’s voice starts out lowly, he knows it starts to raise as he gets himself more and more worked up. “You’ve known for _five weeks_ and you didn’t think to say anything?? To tell anyone, or-or even go to her when she first contacted you?!” Warren is hauling him right out of his seat and towards the door, pulling him out into the open air. People stare as they stumble outside, but he doesn’t care. All he can focus on is Warren and the fact that he could have _prevented this_.

“Laura Hale asked me a very specific request. She’d had worries, but if I’d thought that the Alpha of Beacon Hills had been in real danger, I would have done something!” The hunter physically shakes him, jerking him back and forth.

They’re both panting at this point, anger simmering between them, and Stiles slumps a little, bringing a hand up to grip Warren’s wrist.

He’s so tired.

The other man’s expression scrunches into something he can’t quite identify, like he knows exactly what is going through the younger man’s mind. He lets go of Stiles’ Captain American t-shirt and looks back into the café, where the inhabitants of Beacon Hills look ready to come to the defense of the Sheriff’s only son. Even Mrs. Weldon looks ready for a fight. Stiles waves at them though, quirks his lips a little. They still look anxious though, even as he pulls Warren out of view.

“I’m sorry, this is just—a lot to take in,” he admits.

“Well, look at it this way. With us in town—“

“No!” Stiles says quickly. “I mean, I appreciate your offer, but I need some time to take care of this on my own.”

The elder of the two looks, frankly, alarmed. He says, “You really think you can handle this on your own.”

“I think I’ve got two werewolves on my side, and some kind of freaky witch doctor,” the teen corrects, although that is pretty much a giant lie. He hasn’t even worked up the courage to find Derek, never mind talk to him, and Scott is basically useless when it comes to his brand new werewolf powers. Deaton, at this point, isn’t even returning his calls. “Just…give me until the end of the school year. If the Alpha isn’t gone by then, you’re more than welcome to bring in as many red-shirts in as you want,” he says reasonably.

Warren quirks an eyebrow at him. “You are such a nerd.”

Stiles bats his eyelashes at him and then abruptly stops himself when he realizes how that might be taken. “Says the guy who got the reference.”

“You’ve got until June,” he is then informed.

“Great!” the teen says loudly, like increasing the volume of his voice will make up for his actual lack of enthusiasm. He turns on his heel to head back to his jeep, but Warren stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“There’s something else you need to know.”

Stiles barrels through the front door of the house without thought. He heads straight up the stairs, to his room, and immediately starts tearing everything apart in search of what he’s looking for. He honestly can’t remember where he’d put the damn letter, even as he thinks about the lawyer’s visit to the house four weeks ago.

He jerks open the very top drawer of his desk, pops open the false bottom. A picture of his mom, a picture of Laura, a sketch or two, but no letter.

The lawyer had given him a talk, given him a check, and then given him that stupid sympathetic look. Stiles had been angry, angry enough that he’d—right!

He shoots back out of his room, leaving a mess behind him, and heads down the stairs, skipping two to three steps at a time as he goes.

The letter is tucked under a pile of newspaper, and he snatches it up with a triumphant noise.

“Stiles?” his dad’s voice floats into the living room, from the kitchen, and Stiles automatically moves towards it as he starts to tear into the envelope.

He steps through the swinging door just as he tugs three lined pages free, but when he looks up, he freezes.

Samuel Stilinski sits at the kitchen table, a similar stack of papers in one hand, and a few very familiar books in the other.

 _Lykos Anthropos_ is scrawled across the cover of the one that sits on top.

“We need to talk,” his dad says.

Stiles lets out a breath, and the pages crumple within his white-knuckled grip.

-

_When he steps into Laura’s room, she is rushing around, gathering up her cell phone and purse and files from around the place, looking more frazzled than Stiles has ever seen her._

_“Is it safe to assume that you won’t be joining us for our movie marathon tonight?” he asks, tilting his head a little as he leans against the door jam._

_She jerks to a stop and turns to face him, expression surprised, and he knows that whatever is going down must be important to have distracted her so much that she isn’t even paying attention to her surroundings._

_She frowns at him and says, “I am_ so _sorry; I completely forgot.”_

_Stiles pouts at her and he follows her downstairs. “Are you sure you can’t stay?” he asks as she nears the door, and she turns to look at him._

_He pouts when she shakes her head at him, and the look on her face just then is one that he will never forget._


End file.
